


Mrs. & Mrs. Swan

by Hoovahhoopah



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, SPY ASSASSIN SPOUSES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoovahhoopah/pseuds/Hoovahhoopah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you find out your spouse is trying to kill you... but you're also trying to kill them. Because ugh spy assassin life. This is a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU. You're welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deemn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deemn/gifts).



> This is for Dee. Because she put it in my head. And now it's happening. And now it's realer than real.

The walls are green. A kind of muted forest green that is both calming and completely alarming. The room is bathed in the softest yellow light and Regina sits just slightly more forward, legs crossed, and even in unhappiness, she is luminescent. Her hands are folded in her lap and she’s wearing that deep wine colored blouse that Emma loves so much. She really is beautiful.

 

Emma’s chair is just a few inches back and her left leg bounces up and down. Regina hates it. _Hates it_. There is a disdainful turn of her head during which she looks down her nose at Emma’s denim-clad knee. Emma wants to respond, tell her to fuck off maybe, but she’s interrupted mid-thought.

 

“Welcome,” Dr. Hopper sits across from them, legal pad poised on the armrest of his chair. He smiles kindly, though the clinician in him gives the expression a bit of detachment that Emma can’t really describe.

 

The silence is deafening. Regina picks at some invisible lint on her skirt and Emma watches her fingers with, unfortunately, a completely non-sexual fascination. Until she feels like laughing. And then she does, because how the hell did they end up here. So she laughs and leans back in her chair until she sees Regina’s entire body go rigid. Because Regina _hates_ when Emma is inappropriate.

 

“I just wanna say,” Emma glances at Regina, “We don’t really need to be here.” She almost expects Regina to scoff, but Regina’s better at being unpredictable. So she stays quiet. Almost agrees. Emma takes that as permission to continue, not that she needs permission for Christ’s sakes. “We’ve been married five years now--”

 

“Six,” Regina corrects sharply.

 

“We’ve been married five _or six_ years now, so... this is like a check-up really. A chance to poke around the engine, you know, change the oil.”

 

Now Regina scoffs. “As if you’d even know what any of that means, what with the yellow piece of scrap metal you prefer over the--” She stops herself. Takes a deep breath. “Doctor, if you please.”

 

Emma scowls but stays quiet.

 

“On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you? As a couple.”

 

“Eight,” Regina answers quickly, calmly, flattens her palms against her thighs.

 

“Wait,” Emma shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket and leans back against her chair. “Is ten ecstatically happy and one completely miserable? Or...”

 

Regina seems to reconsider her answer, “Emma brings up a valid question.”

 

“Just answer instinctively,” Dr. Hopper’s pen stays capped in his hand as he observes.

 

“Eight,” Regina says again without hesitation.

 

“Eight,” Emma nods her answer as well.

 

“And how often do you have sex?” Dr. Hopper taps his pen against the yellow paper.

 

Regina’s lips form a thin line before, “I don’t understand the question.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma leans forward again. “I’m lost. Is this a one to ten thing? Because like, is one very little or is one not at all? And is ten all the time or is ten like... often?”

 

“Dear, technically zero would be not at all,” Regina turns to look at her wife, superior and all knowing. Emma smirks back.

 

Dr. Hopper looks confused, his brows furrow and he pushes his glasses further up his nose. He looks almost uncomfortable. Emma would feel bad, but she’s already sort of pissed about being here.

 

“Let’s... Let’s try a different approach,” Dr. Hopper uncaps his pen, scribbles a few illegible notes on his legal pad. “Why don’t you describe how you first met?”


	2. Bogotá

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I knew you were trouble,” Emma murmurs before she presses her lips to Regina’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken a legitimate eternity. Thank you all for your kindness. And Merry Christmas, Dee. Here's your present. Look I updated. I didn't write you any actual Christmas themed smut. But I wrote you some Mrs. And Mrs. Swan sex. Love me. And for everyone else, happy holidays and enjoy.

**Bogotá - _five or six years ago_**

 

Emma’s leaning against the bar, drink in hand, when she spots Regina for the first time. There is rapid fire Spanish from all directions, barked by several officers, and she can hear the helicopters overhead. She catches something about single tourists and just makes out the words _asesinato_ and _sobrenaural_ before there is an officer stepping into her line of sight.

 

“¿Estás sola?”

 

Emma looks up from behind her dark dark aviator sunglasses as if to say _me?_

 

“¿Estás sola?”

 

It is then, amongst the policías and harried tourists, that Emma sees her. She slips through the antiquated hotel doors, paint thin and worn, and she looks like danger and safety all at once. Her eyes meet Emma’s and Emma thinks she must be imagining the brief flash of violet, like lightening, in them. But then Regina smiles, shy with a glint of mischief and something dark dark dark, and Emma is a goner.

 

“¿Estás sola?”

 

“No,” Emma shakes her head, reaches out her free hand for this mysterious woman, mysterious and dark but wearing the whitest sundress Emma has ever seen. “No. She’s with me. Está bien. Está bien.” Her accent is dreadful and American but if she sticks her chest out just far enough, if she looks just stupid enough, no one will ask a god damn thing. She doesn’t stop to think, only grasps a soft hand in hers and pulls and pulls until there are two of them, pressed against the door of her room. There wasn’t time then, but there is now. To notice the way this woman seems to glow, from the soft sheen of sweat against her skin, to the glimmer of something Emma can’t quite place hiding in her eyes.

 

“I’m Regina,” she extends a hand and her lips curve into the slowest, sweetest smile Emma’s ever seen.

 

“Emma.”

 

\--

 

The tequila is sweet sweet sweet, like the curve of Regina’s lips, but it burns and burns like curve of her back, like the sway of her hips. Emma watches as Regina tilts her head back, licks her lips. Emma grins.

 

“ _Em-ma_ ,” her name is a song on Regina’s lips, carried by the soft breeze off the mountains, and Emma leans forward, rests her elbows on the table. Regina smirks, tucks her hair behind one ear, “Care for another?”

 

Emma laughs, full and deep and pushes her glass forward with her thumb, “If you can take it, I can take it.”

 

Regina’s smile is demure and gentle as she pours and Emma eyes the elegant curve of her wrist. “Your toast,” Regina nods and nudges Emma’s glass forward.

 

“Ah,” Emma picks up her drink, rolls the cool glass between her thumb and first two fingers for a moment as she thinks. “To dodging bullets.”

 

“To dodging bullets,” Regina repeats as she raises her glass in agreement.

 

Emma’s glass is the first to hit the table again and she leans back in her chair with a satisfied grunt. The sun is long gone, but Emma can still see it, fanning out around Regina like a fucking halo. The same band has been playing for hours, slow sweet melodies that float above them in the warm night air.

 

Regina’s already refilled her own glass and offers up the bottle to Emma again.

 

“No,” Emma’s shakes her head and leans back in her chair. She chuckles softly and pulls a cigarette from behind one ear. The tobacco is sweet and bitter all at once and the smoke hangs in the air like the tails of a ghost, “You’ve got trouble written all over you.”

 

Regina smirks before tossing back her shot. The glass hits the table with a loud clink and she watches Emma with surprising alertness. She’s slow and soft as she places her hand on the table, palm up.

 

Emma smiles, cigarette dangling from her lips, and reaches out. She traces a flower on the palm of Regina’s hand with her index finger. Regina plucks the cigarette from Emma’s lips with her free hand and takes a slow drag before stubbing it out on the leg of the table. “So it speaks,” she pushes herself away from the table and stands, grasping Emma’s index finger in her hand. “But does it dance.”

 

And the next thing Emma knows, she’s standing, flush against Regina’s back, as Regina’s hips move to the beat. Her hand splays itself across Regina’s stomach, soft crisp white cotton and Emma’s fingers flex. Regina reaches back, wraps an arm around Emma’s middle, the other moves up and back, bent at the elbow, and her fingertips brush agains the back of Emma’s neck. And all Emma can do is hold on and try not to groan as Regina grinds against her. She’s sensuous and angelic all at once, dark dark hair and her dark dark eyes, and soft soft skin, covered by a flimsy layer of white cotton, and god damn it, Emma Swan is fucked.

 

Regina hums too, she has the audacity to hum while she is grinding her incredibly perfect ass against Emma’s front, and her voice is smoky and warm and maybe the sexiest thing Emma’s ever heard. And Emma can’t help it, “ _Shit._ ”

 

And then Regina laughs. Throaty and full and Emma loses it. One hand moves to Regina’s thigh and the other travels upward to rest just beneath her breast. And Emma tries, really tries to be respectful but something along the lines of _Jesus Christ_ and _I want to fuck you into next week_ comes out. Which Regina seems fine with, really, because she just presses further into Emma and leans her head back on Emma’s shoulder and smiles like Emma’s brilliant.

 

The rain comes, rolling in without a care, and then it’s just the two of them, swaying together as the rain beats down. Emma smiles when Regina turns in her arms, presses her nose to Emma’s and waits, expectantly. And when Emma simply presses her forehead to Regina’s instead of her lips, Regina pouts. “You’ve been staring at my mouth all night, why don’t you just kiss me already.”

 

“I knew you were trouble,” Emma murmurs before she presses her lips to Regina’s.

 

Regina’s hands slip beneath the soft cotton of Emma’s white tank and press flat against the small of her back as Emma’s lips trace the line of her jaw. Her hips are still swaying and one of Emma’s hands grabs a fistful of the flowing cotton over Regina’s ass. Regina’s back arches in response and she tilts her head back and Emma can’t help but nip at the muscle and soft flesh, tasting rain and smoke and Regina. Regina’s smiling and making soft sounds in Emma’s ear and Emma isn’t entirely sure she’s even moved until she feels something at the back of her knees, until she’s being pushed down onto an empty chair. Until Regina’s hiking up her rain-soaked skirt and climbing on top of her. Regina’s fingers slip through Emma’s wet hair, pushing it away from her face so she can press kisses to Emma’s temples, to her cheeks, just the barest whispers of her lips against Emma’s dewy skin. Emma’s hands slip up Regina’s thighs and she groans when strong muscle flexes beneath her fingers, _shit shit shit. Yes yes yes._

 

The loose denim of her jeans is soaked through and sticking to her legs and god damn it, it’s uncomfortable, but Regina starts to rock her hips against Emma’s as their lips meet again and Emma doesn’t care about anything else. Her grip tightens around Regina’s thighs before her hands move upward beneath white cotton, heavy with rain, until her fingertips reach lace.

 

“ _Em-ma_ ,” Regina tangles her fingers in Emma’s hair, kisses her hard, deep, and Emma moans, traces the line of lace across Regina’s hipbone. Regina rolls her hips once, twice, and her breathy _“oh”_ gasped into Emma’s mouth erases all thought from Emma’s mind. Her hands move to Regina’s ass, pulling her close close close, and Regina groans, allows Emma to guide her, force her down harder, slower, until Regina’s back arches until her hands move to Emma’s shoulders because it’s almost too much. She presses her forehead to Emma’s and tries to catch her breath. Her chest is heaving and Emma’s eyes are drawn to the front of her dress, translucent and sicking in all the rightwrong places, and Emma wonders if this is maybe a frat boy’s dream come true.

 

“Oh, god,” Emma groans as she dips her head, peppers kisses along Regina’s collarbones until she arches back again. She nudges the wet fabric aside with her nose and traces one dusky rose nipple with the tip of her tongue. Regina shudders above her, clenches her fist in Emma’s hair, and Emma smiles, nips at the underside of Regina’s breast. Regina rocks gently against Emma again, mewling softly, and one of Emma’s hands traces a slow path back to Regina’s thigh.

 

“Kiss me,” is Regina’s breathy request as Emma’s hand settles atop her thigh. So Emma does, full and sweet, until she’s certain she’s completely stolen the breath from Regina’s lungs. “Touch me,” she murmurs against Emma’s lips.

 

Emma opens her eyes, looks up at Regina. There’s a wild look in her eyes, wild and lazy and something that burns and burns. So Emma waits, traces the bit of lace just above Regina’s cunt, and she grins. She watches the way Regina’s eyes flutter shut and her eyes travel down, pausing to admire the rapid rise and fall of Regina’s chest. She taps a gentle rhythm with her fingertips and a strangled groan pushes past Regina’s lips.

 

“Fuck, _Emma_.”

 

And Emma can’t wait any longer, she pushes the lace aside, slides her fingers through soft soft wet wet flesh and groans. Regina gasps above her when her fingers brush against her clit and Emma chuckles. She presses a kiss to the center of Regina’s chest and Regina rolls her hips forward in silent encouragement. So Emma relents and then she’s inside Regina, up to her knuckles in Regina, and Regina sighs in contentment before she urges Emma on again.

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Emma moves slowly, punishingly so, and Regina moans and grips Emma’s shoulder tightly with one hand. The other moves to her own breast and Emma watches with wonder as Regina touches herself. She’s like nothing Emma’s ever seen before, unbridled lust and passion and sweet sweet sweet (but she’s as dark as she is sweet sometimes and Emma doesn’t know what to think when it crosses her face as she’s riding her). She adds a third finger and moves her other hand to push Regina’s dress up above her hips. She wants to watch, wants to see, and she groans at the sight, white lace pushed aside and god damn, Regina’s wet. And now she can see it, and fuck, all she wants to do is taste it. So she does. She stops with a breathy, “Wait.” And brings her fingers to her lips. Regina watches, her eyes wild and dark.

 

Emma makes a show of it, licking her fingers clean before Regina rushes forward to taste herself on Emma’s lips. She gasps when Emma pushes inside her again, three fingers and a thumb on her clit. Emma’s wrist hurts and she’s pretty sure her bicep is burning from exertion too, but she doesn’t care. She just wants to watch Regina come apart above her. She wants to fuck Regina until her name falls of full sweet lips, over and over again.

 

“Come for me,” she nips at Regina’s jaw, and Regina’s cry when her fingers hit just right pushes her forward. “That’s it, come for me, Regina.”

 

And Regina does, Emma’s name a melody on her lips.

 

She’s breathing heavy against Emma’s ear, her cheek pressed to Emma’s shoulder, and Emma gathers her up, arms tight around her as the rain slows, slow and slows until it stops. And it isn’t until the rain starts again that she follows Emma back to her room, her hand clasped tightly in Emma’s.

\--

Regina wakes alone, to warm sunlight and the soft breeze left after the rain. She stretches out beneath the sheets, and a slow lazy smile crosses her lips when Emma’s blonde head comes through the doorway. It’s quiet and the breeze fills the silence, flitting through the curtains and dancing across the scattered pages of yesterday’s paper. Emma smiles back, her eyes bright, and Regina sits up slowly.

 

“Hiya, stranger.”

 

“Hiya back,” Emma’s all cheek and Regina feels herself relax. Like she hasn’t in years. And she watches as Emma places a small tray on the bed. “I think room service fled, so, I did what I could.”

 

“Thank you,” Regina takes the offered cup and takes a small sip. The milk is sweet, sweet like Emma’s smile, and she closes her eyes in delight. “Mm, that’s good.”

 

Emma nods and takes her own mug toward the open balcony doors. She looks out at the city and the far countryside behind it and sighs. “It better be, I had to milk a fucking goat to get it.”

 

Regina laughs, full and throaty, and it hits Emma between her legs and deep in her belly. She remembers Regina last night, equal parts innocence and that dark dark look in her eyes as she had disappeared beneath the sheets.

 

Regina picks up the paper with her free hand and scans the headlines, makes out the word _asesinato,_ before she feels something fall into her lap. The flower is soft between her fingertips, soft and fragrant, and she looks up at Emma questioningly. Emma shrugs and gives a shy smile. Shy and sweet. And she feels something flutter in her chest as she watches Regina place the flower behind her ear.

 

She is as lovely as she is terrifying and Emma can’t breathe. The breeze catches Regina’s hair and she glows in the morning sunlight. It’s so peaceful that Emma almost forgets the danger that could still be lurking just beyond the safety of her room. And then Regina is moving towards her, wrapped in a sheet, a purple flower in her sex-mussed hair. Emma does forget then, and she reaches for Regina, pulling her close. She smells like sunsets and rain and mornings, and Emma nuzzles her neck happily.

 

“I think I could fall in love with you,” she kisses Regina before she has a chance to respond.

 

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” is Regina’s muffled response. She smiles, brushes her lips over Emma’s jaw, then her neck, until Emma moans.

 

“The difference is,” Emma tugs at the sheet until it pools to the ground at Regina’s feet. “I didn’t _want_ to fall in love with them.”

 

“You said it yourself,” Regina stands up to her full height, presses herself against Emma. “I’m trouble.”


	3. Carnival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Regina go on a date. And Emma does something stupid brilliant wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter felt like a weird joke I wasn't quite in on. But it happened.

“Hey, step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Try your luck.”

 

It’s overcast, drizzly, but Emma wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

_“Regina, I’ve been planning this date for like, over a week, please? I’ll buy you an umbrella.”_

 

It’s a far cry from Colombian summer rain, but Regina is tucked under Emma’s arm and she’s all buttery leather and soft skin and eyes that shine and shine and shine. And Regina is smiling, it’s a private smile, a smile that ducks its head and matches Emma’s eyes. She doesn’t care so much about the rain or the crowds and she’s smiling like she hasn’t since a pretty redhead kissed her beneath an apple tree senior year in New Haven.

 

“How about you, little lady?”

 

Regina looks to Emma when she realizes the barker is speaking to her, “ _I’m not little,_ ” and Emma grins back at her and presses a lazy kiss to Regina’s lips. Like she has all the time in the world.

 

“Wanna try your luck? Win a prize?”

 

She slips from beneath Emma’s arm, hands her the half-eaten spool of pink cotton candy she’s been holding, and then she’s hefting the weight of a rifle in her hands. She’s never been one for guns, prefers other methods other means instead, but there’s still something comforting about the way it feels, worn wood and cold metal, against the palms of her hands.

 

“You know how to hold it?” Emma’s still grinning at her, shit-eating and mildly patronizing, and Regina remembers herself. Remembers that Emma doesn’t _know_. That she _likes_ Emma. Likes Emma a great deal, really. And she curses herself silently, because she’s not about to blow it.

 

“Yeah,” Regina smiles shyly, digs down deep and finds the awkwardness of a lovesick teenager, and shrugs. She loosens her grip, feels her hand slip too far down the neck of the gun, the other grips too tight and too close on the belly.

 

“Yeah?” Emma’s eyebrows raise, but she shoves some cotton candy in her mouth and nods. Regina’s sort of surprised at how sexy that is.

 

“Yeah,” she holds the rifle at her torso, remembers what sixteen felt like, and pulls the trigger.

 

“You gotta aim it,” Emma’s laughing sweetly, stepping closer, and Regina’s laughing too and she smells leather and sugary sweetness and beer and Emma. She resists the urge to curl into that smell, to Emma’s warmth, and she stands rigid, missing all of the targets with the grace of a child. “Aim it, Regina.”

 

“I know!” she does know and she should try, but she doesn’t, because Emma is equal parts adorable and annoying and fucking chest-forward don’t care attitude, and Regina finds it disgustingly attractive. “Don’t laugh,” she’s firing haphazard shots, and all she can feel is Emma’s hand at her lower back and soft puffs of laughter against her temple. “I’ll kill you.”

 

Emma chuckles, nods toward all of Regina’s missed targets, “I’m not so sure about that, ‘Gina.” And then Emma’s picking up another rifle, and the chain on it hits Regina’s thigh on the way up. And she should be annoyed by that. But she’s not. Not yet.

 

Emma hits five fucking animal targets. Three yellow ducks, a pink elephant, and a green bull. The hollow metal sound echoes in Regina’s ears, rattles around, because now it’s a fucking challenge. Not really. Not at all.

 

“Can we still get something?” Emma’s nodding at the small stuffed animals lining the far wall and she nods when the barker’s hand rests over a small tiger. Upon seeing Regina’s now flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes, she shrugs, “Beginners luck.”

 

Asshole.

 

“I want to go again.”

 

“Going again,” Emma passes a few crumpled bills to the barker and settles back in, chewing thoughtfully on another clump of cotton candy.

 

This time, Regina aims. Lifts the fucking gun and aims, like a lady. And she hits nine. Emma’s five, a blue moose, a green severed head, and two more ducks. And then she politely reaches over to close Emma’s mouth. “It’s impolite to gawk, Emma.”

 

\--

 

It isn’t until later, when they’re standing on the pier, that Regina lets herself smile again. A real smile. A private smile. A smile for Emma. She’s clutching her big prize bear to her chest and leaning against the rail, and Emma is next to her. She’s got one arm around Regina’s waist and she has an ice cream cone clutched tightly in her other hand.

 

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Emma’s eyes are on the horizon, Regina’s on the choppy water below. “I mean,” Emma trails off, turns her head to look at Regina. “Yeah.”

 

Regina shrugs and smiles, “Beginner’s luck.”

 

And then Emma Swan does something stupid brilliant wonderful.

 

Because that smile. She would do anything for that smile. To see it, and to keep it right there. Because Regina should always be smiling like that. Like happiness, like warmth, like light. And she gets the urge to pick Regina up and spin her around after that, so she does, the stuffed bear smushed between them, and when Regina laughs, shit, Emma feels everything stop, like in a movie. And her heart beats faster and faster and Regina’s there. Right there.

 

\--

 

“Stop. Stop, you’ve only known the girl for six weeks,” Neal drags a hand down his face in aggravation. He’s sitting down, having made some lame excuse about heartburn rendering him useless in a fight.

 

Emma hops from foot to foot, stares August down. They’ve been sparring for the better part of an hour and she’s almost positive she’s found a weakness in his left leg that she’s about to bank on. “I’m in love,” she grins and shakes her hair out of her face.

 

“Six weeks?” August throws a punch, Emma ducks. He’s losing focus.

 

“She’s smart, sexy,” Emma dodges another poorly aimed punch and darts across the ring. “She’s,” she pauses, looking for the right words, “Uninhibited, spontaneous, complicated.” She blocks one of August’s better moves before landing a hit to his left temple.

 

“Shit, Swan!”

 

“She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” she grins and thinks of Regina’s smile. Wide and bright and beautiful. 

 

“I knew Tamara two and a half years before I asked her to marry me,” Neal is adjusting the drape of his fucking scarf when Emma glances over at him.

 

“Bullshit, Neal,” Emma rolls her eyes and August follows suit.

 

“Jesus, tough crowd. Point is, you have to have a foundation of friendship, Swan. The other stuff, that’ll fade with time.”

 

\--

 

“You don’t think this is all happening a little too fast?” Kathryn tugs the zipper of her pullover higher as she watches Regina stretch.

 

Regina looks up from where she’s bent in half over one leg, “You know I never do anything without thinking it through first.” She lifts her leg from the back of the park bench and takes off ahead of Kathryn.

 

Kathryn makes a strangled sound before she sprints forward, trying to catch up. “What does she do?”

 

“She’s a contractor. She and two of her college friends. Started a business, now they’re big time. And,” she pauses, scanning the park up ahead. “She’s gone as much as I am, it’s perfect.” She chooses the path that leads to the pond and she’s gone before Kathryn can even blink.

 

“Damn it, Regina.”

 

\--

 

“She’s like Batman for computers,” Emma chokes out. August has her pinned, god damn it, and she didn’t even see it coming. She lashes out, kicks around a little bit, but she’s fighting a losing battle.

 

“I give the whole thing six months, tops,” August’s looking down at her and she sees Neal nodding in her peripheral.

 

“Fuck you, August.”

 

“You didn’t want to,” he loosens his grip, gives her a second to breathe.

 

“Yeah, that’s right, I don’t. But maybe someone will, even though you peaked in college.” Cheap shot, but anything more intelligent leaves Neal and August scratching their heads for days.

 

August steps back, offended, and Emma takes the time and space to stand up again. “Hey, Neal,” she claps her gloved hands together twice to get his attention. Mistake, because August has her in a chokehold before she even realizes they’re far from finished. “God damn it!” She struggles for a minute, “Neal!”

 

“What?” he’s half listening, half checking out some blonde punching the shit out of a bag.

 

“I asked her to marry me.”

 

“What?” August chokes her for real this time and Neal comes marching back toward them. “What did you just say?”

 

“I’m getting married!” Emma’s grinning and her eyes are sort of glazed over and she’s not even really there anymore. Or maybe she’s just not getting enough oxygen to her brain.

 

“I can’t hear you.”

 

“Getting married!” she rasps, hits August’s forearm and tries to stomp on his foot. “Fuck!”

  
“Stop choking her, Christ, I think she just said something crazy,” Neal’s looking at her with the intense expression he saves for his father’s girlfriend. August’s grip loosens and next thing Emma knows, she’s flat on her back. “What did you just say, Emma?”

 

“I’m getting married!” she punches the air with one triumphant gloved fist.

 

“Fuck.”


	4. Five or Six Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Married life sucks a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a slow ride, I'm so sorry you guys. I am just crazy busy and tired all the time now. But I managed to come up with something fairly decent for you. Go team. Have fun, kids.

**_Five or six years later..._ **

 

Emma Swan is not a morning person. Unfortunately, she lives in a fucking neighborhood of morning people. Morning people with morning routines and morning hellos from across the street. And all Emma wants is the darkness of the newly renovated master bedroom and the warmth of the new down comforter Regina bought last week.

 

It’s a dismal fall morning, still wet from the October rain, and Emma stands at the edge of the front walk. One hand is clenched around a fresh cup of coffee, and the other hangs limply at her side, uninspired. The newspaper sits at her slipper-clad feet, bunny slippers. A gift from August and Neal last year, “Happy Anniversary. You’re going soft on us, Swan.” She wears them because they’re warm. And because Regina hates them.

 

Elias Gold is at the edge of his front walk, in his black silk pajamas and a deep navy robe. He nods his head once in greeting and watches as Emma bends to pick up the paper.

 

Living across the street from Neal’s father is only a little bit awkward. Mainly because Neal calls himself “a free bird” and much prefers rooming with August and August’s father because, well one, August has a sick dealer and Marco doesn’t even realize they’re hotboxing the downstairs bathroom 80% of the time, _and_ his own father, “Is a good-for-nothing absentee cheating suburbanite bastard. And oh, wait, did I mention his girlfriend is younger than me?”

 

They just don’t talk about it.

 

\--

 

“What did you think of Doctor Hopper?” Regina has a plate on the counter for Emma. Bacon, two eggs, two slices of toast. Regina is a morning person, up with the sun every morning, and breakfast is on the table by eight. She leans against the counter, a cup of coffee in one hand, and she accepts the paper from Emma’s outstretched hand. “His questions were a bit wishy-washy.”

 

Emma nods and speaks around a mouthful of eggs, “Yeah. Not the most insightful. What was that thing even, ‘on a scale of one to ten.’ I don’t get it.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes and spreads the paper out on the counter. She sips her coffee daintily and casually and Emma’s eyes are drawn to her lips. “And his office is clear across town.” Emma isn’t entirely aware that Regina has spoken again until she clears her throat.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Doctor Hopper’s office is clear across town, _dear_.” Regina glances down at the paper before she sets down her coffee cup. “I believe I’ll go take my shower.”

 

“Right,” Emma nods and watches Regina head upstairs. The roman silver silk of Regina’s pajamas clings in all the right places and she thinks of how cool and smooth it feels bunched in her fist. And then she’s groaning in frustration because the last time Regina let Emma bunch any silk in her fists was three months ago.

 

Regina is still in her towel, hair wet, but fully made-up by the time Emma gets upstairs. Her hair smells faintly of lilacs and Emma gets a little tingly because it makes her think of June in East Hampton and Regina’s smiles. But this is October in Westchester County and Regina is not smiling. She’s got one hand on her hip and she’s watching Emma with an expression of vague confusion and exasperation.

 

“You know, the four o’clock means we hit rush hour. Not crazy about that,” Emma brushes past, her shoulder bumping Regina’s on the way to the double sinks. She catches sight of Regina in the mirror, up on tiptoe to reach a sweater on the top shelf of her closet. She looks and looks because these moments are really all she has, and she wonders when everything changed, really changed.

 

“So that’s settled then?” Regina turns to look at her again, red lace hanging from one hand and a black cashmere sweater in the other.

 

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Emma shrugs and reaches for the toothpaste. She tries to pinpoint the moment being together started to feel like being wedged apart.

 

“Great,” Regina slips into their room and Emma knows by the time she steps out of the shower, Regina will be dressed and blown-out and made-up and they will not kiss goodbye.

 

\--

 

“Dinner is at seven,” Regina slings her purse and her briefcase up onto her shoulder and reaches for her car keys. She’s switched out her platform pumps in favor of a pair of single-soled pumps with a pointed toe. Emma takes the time to stare, dragging her eyes up slowly over Regina’s muscled calves to where her knees disappear beneath her trench coat. “Emma?”

 

“Yup. Dinner is at seven,” Emma repeats, meeting Regina’s eyes as she reaches for her coat. Her arm brushes against Regina’s when she stretches just a little further for her scarf and she smiles. Sort of. “I’ll be there. Here.”

 

Regina stares at her for a moment, just stares blankly at her, and Emma wants to kiss her. Kiss her until she smiles and moans and loves her again. But by the time Emma’s body catches up with her brain, Regina’s already on her way to the garage, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. So she sighs and follows, watches her wife slide into her car, all legs and black stiletto pumps, god damn it, and yanks open the door of her newly purchased sedan. She pauses to look longingly at her yellow bug, stashed in the back of the garage for safekeeping, and she glares at the silver BMW she’s about to get into. She can hear Regina scoffing before the black Mercedes door slams shut and she does not bother to look over at her wife before she starts down the driveway.

 

\--

 

“Anybody calls, I’m in with the boss, okay?” Mary Margaret pushes her way through the bustling office, all business in her new cardigan. She pauses at Leroy’s desk, “Got a call from the man. Big highline assignment, Leroy. You know how it is.”

 

Leroy looks up from a stack of paperwork and glares, no, Leroy does not know how it is. The new girl, the boss’s kid, thinks she can get away with murder. Leroy, on the other hand, has been working this stupid desk job for over five years. He thought he would be out in the field, super high tech weaponry at his hip, Astrid on his arm. But he’s here, in this stupid short-sleeved dress shirt, with this stupid Windows operating system, with this _child_.

 

“Actually, you probably don’t,” she lets out a tittering laugh and Leroy shoves himself away from his desk, ready to give her a piece of his mind.

 

“Listen, sister, you--”

 

“Sweetie?” she has officially become Leroy’s least favorite co-worker. She’s pointing to Astrid, addressing her, “Could you grab me a coffee? I like it with lots of sugar. Thanks a lot.” And then she’s off again, breezing through their space. _Their_ space.

 

“Hey there,” Leopold is on it, he heard some sort of upset on his way past, and he stands between the elevator and his simpleton child. “Mary Margaret, where do you think you’re going?”

 

“Well, Daddy, I was,” she pauses, looks up at her father with petulance. “The boss wants to see me.”

 

Leroy is terrified she’s going to start crying on the spot. Right here, right now. At her father’s feet. Shit.

 

“Well, he sees you.”

 

Leroy registers shock, anger, and loud defiance cross the girl’s pale pale face.

 

“Look, Mary Margaret, people who’ve been working here for twenty five years have never seen the inside of that elevator. _I_ have never seen the inside of that elevator.”

 

“But you’re his most trusted!” the girl actually stomps her foot. _Stomps. Her. Foot._

 

“Here,” Leopold hands her a manila folder and a fucking Hershey’s Kiss.

 

“This is the assignment?”

 

“Now get to work,” Leopold nods solemnly and heads back toward the receiving hall. “I expect your assignment to be completed with little incident.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Mary Margaret grumbles and drags her feet all the way back to her desk.

 

“Highline assignment, huh?” Leroy snorts as she passes.

 

\--

 

It’s dark when Emma gets home, just a minute to seven, and she curses under her breath as she pulls into the garage. Regina hates lateness, Regina hates a lot of things. Emma happens to be a lot of the things Regina hates.

 

The garage door hums as it closes and Emma feels blindly for her ring in the door pocket. She feels cold metal at her fingertips and pulls the band from its hiding spot. She slips it back onto her finger with little incident and reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror.

 

“Ah, fuck,” Emma’s got a tear in the leather of her old red jacket. Things had not gone smoothly, and to be perfectly honest, she’s surprised she doesn’t have a broken hand. She wipes a red smudge off the collar and mutters a few more choice words. It’s raining when she steps out of the garage and she tries to remember why they didn’t buy a house with a connecting garage. Because by the time Emma reaches the door, she’ll be soaked.

 

She can see Regina at the stove, still in her skirt and heels. She looks like she might be humming and Emma catches herself smiling despite the rain and the cold and how much Regina hates her.

 

“Hey babe,” she shoulders open the back door and nods at Regina. The kitchen smells like garlic and pork roast and Emma’s stomach rumbles. “Smells good.”

 

“Perfect timing,” Regina almost smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She nods at Emma before turning to the oven to check the roast. 

 

“It’s pissing rain out there,” Emma hangs her jacket over an empty chair and moves to kiss Regina’s cheek. The warmth from the open oven is immediate and she presses a gentle kiss below Regina’s ear, “I brought butter though.” She holds the offering in front of the oven so Regina can see. Her other hand slips around Regina’s middle and just holds on for a minute.

 

“Thank you,” Regina turns her head and it’s the fucking stuff of miracles when she smiles and presses her lips to Emma’s for the briefest of moments. “Hi.”

 

Emma almost forgets. She wants Regina here and now, because sometimes she’s there, wind-tousled hair and sweet seductive smiles, danger and safety all at once. But then Emma fucking remembers and the wedge is back, driving itself further and further into their space, and she feels Regina remember too. And then everything is fucking ruined because Regina tenses in her arms and sighs.

 

“How was work?” she turns back to the roast in the oven and shrugs Emma off.

 

“Ah,” Emma shrugs and sets the butter down on the counter by the rest of the vegetables waiting for Regina’s attention. She thinks about her ripped jacket and smudgy red stains, “So-so.”

 

“This is salted,” Regina is back at the counter, holding the butter in one hand, a chef’s knife in the other. The point of the blade rests on the cutting board next to half of an onion, the metal catches the light and Emma stares.

 

“What?”

 

“The butter, it’s _salted_ ,” she bites out, her grip on the knife handle tightening.

 

Jesus Christ, this woman.

 

Emma leans back against the sink, the heels of her hands pressing down on the edge, “Is there any other kind?”

 

“Unsalted.”

 

They stare at each other until the hot oil on the stove smells like it’s burning, until Emma’s insides feel like ice. Until Regina lets out an uncharacteristic and biting, “ _Shit._ ” and dashes toward the offending pan.

 

“Idiot,” Regina huffs under her breath, and Emma knows it’s meant for her.

 

\--

 

“So, part two. Here we are,” Dr. Hopper adjusts his glasses. He’s certainly less nervous without Regina around, but he’s a fidgety man. “Only this time, you came back alone. Why did you come back?”

 

“Uh,” Emma wrings her hands together for a minute and stares at her knees. “I’m not sure, really.” She’s sure. She’s one hundred percent sure. She misses Regina like she misses Colombian rain. Like she misses sunlight and danger and purple flowers. Because she would do anything to not miss Regina. She would do anything to not resent the weird Stepford version of herself Regina has become. Because it’s driving Emma fucking nuts.

 

“Let me clarify,” Emma sighs and leans back in her chair. She rubs her hands down the thighs of her new jeans and closes her eyes. “I love my wife. I want her to be happy and I really do want good things for her, but there are times when I just...” she trails off, her hands in fists at her knees. “I just wanna,” she brings her fists up and shakes them, imagines gripping Regina by the shoulders and shaking her until she snaps the fuck out of it. “Until she can hear me again, you know?”

 

“I see,” Dr. Hopper nods, scribbles something on his legal pad.

 

“There’s this huge space between us,” Emma lets her hands drop, palms up. “And it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and it fills up with everything that we’re not saying to each other. What is that called?”

 

“Marriage.”

 

“Good one, Doc,” Emma chuckles and god damn it, she feels helpless.

 

\--

 

“Oh,” Regina’s face lights up for a moment and it’s really just beautiful. “I got new curtains.”

 

That is most certainly not what Emma was expecting, and she turns from the sideboard and her freshly poured scotch to look at her wife. She hopes the Regina can hear the disappointment in her tone. “Did you.”

 

“Well?” Regina’s looking up at the thick green damask curtains, arms crossed over her chest. “What do you think?” Off of Emma’s dumb stare, Regina continues. “There was a struggle over the material. This tea sandwich of a man got his hands on them first. But I won.”

 

“Of course you did.” Emma sips her drink slowly. Regina wins. Regina always wins. That used to make her insides mushy, now it just makes her angry. It makes her stomach churn and her skin feels hot and tight and why does it even matter.

 

“They’re a bit green,” Regina’s still surveying the living room with a critical eye. “So, we’ll have to reupholster the sofas and get a new rug. Maybe a Persian.”

 

“Yeah,” she draws out the A. “Or, how about we just keep the old curtains and then we don’t have to change a thing.”

 

“We talked about this. You remember?” Regina turns to face her and sometimes she looks so tiny in this big house with their big dreams and Emma sighs.

 

“I remember. I remember because we said we’d wait.”

 

“If you don’t like them, we can take them back,” Regina shrugs and Emma knows it’s for show.

 

“Okay. I don’t like ‘em.”

 

“You’ll get used to them,” she turns on her heel and heads back into the kitchen.

 

_Fuck._

 

\--

 

Regina is all controlled chaos and she’s measured and delicate and ferocious and Emma cringes when Regina drops a plate in front of her. Drops. Onto the $12,000 dining room table Regina had insisted upon. 

 

“This looks nice,” she tries, and the words taste bitter. And Regina is still glaring at her from across the table. “Did you do something new?”

 

“I added peas,” and the look is withering and Emma wants to shrivel up and die.

 

“Peas,” Emma repeats and looks down at her plate again. There are peas with the broccoli and the mushrooms and why is this happening. “Yeah, it’s the green.” She nods once and stabs a piece of pork with her fork. The sound of her knife against the plate causes Regina to wince, so she does it again. And maybe one more time for good measure. The meat is sweet, orange-glazed and tender, and Emma chews thoughtfully.

 

“Pass the salt?”

 

Regina looks up from her plate, eyes blazing. Another thing Regina hates: flavor changes to her meals. “It’s in the middle of the table.”

 

Emma’s eyes scan the table for the shakers. They’re too far to reach from her seat, “Is that the middle of the table?”

 

“Yes, it’s between you and me,” Regina takes a victorious sip of wine.

 

“Okay,” Emma pushes back and gets to her feet, reaches for the shakers and knocks over her water glass in the process.

 

“Emma!”

 

She shrugs and falls back into her chair. Fuck it.

 

\--

 

“How honest are you with her?” Dr. Hopper coughs awkwardly. The office smells like the Dunhill slowly turning to ash in the ashtray on the table. He’s transfixed by the smoke, it’s easier to look at than Regina.

 

“Pretty honest,” Regina shrugs, clasps her hands tighter together. “I mean, it’s not like I lie to her or anything. We just,” she pauses, looking for the right words. She’s not a liar. She’s not. “I have little secrets. Everybody has secrets. Don’t they? It just feels like we’re... we’re not like everyone else.”

 

“It probably, if I may, feels like you’re the only people going through this,” Dr. Hopper’s eyes meet Regina’s again. She doesn’t look like she’s going to throttle him this time, so maybe, maybe it’s okay. “But there are millions of couples that are experiencing the same problems.”

 

Regina scoffs, “I’m not so sure.”

 

\--

 

Emma hates doing dishes. More than anything, really. So it’s not surprise that she does a lot of them these days. Sloppily, lazily, and it drives Regina out of her mind. Good.

 

She can feel Regina’s eyes on her but she ignores her, continues rinsing their dinner plates. Poorly. Regina sets their wineglasses next to the sink and glares as Emma sets the plate in the dishwasher. There are sauce smudges all over it and Regina plucks it back out with disdain. She nudges Emma aside with her hip and shoves the plate under the steady stream of water. Once it’s been rinsed to Regina’s satisfaction, she bends at the waist to place it back in the dishwasher.

 

Emma’s pissed, more than pissed, really. But Regina’s bent over in front of her and she can’t help it. Because they used to sleep flush against each other, not at separate edges of their bed. Because Emma is still of the belief that Regina should be fucking worshipped. Even when she’s being a complete bitch. Because Emma is still hopelessly in love with this beautiful creature. So her fingertips start at the small of Regina’s back and press and stroke gently until she’s got Regina’s hips in her hands and she’s bending down to press kisses at the base of Regina’s neck. Until she can press her hips forward against Regina’s ass and until Regina reaches up to grasp the edge of the counter with one hand.

 

“Emma.”

 

Emma’s lips follow the soft slope of Regina’s shoulder, and she nudges cashmere out of the way with her nose. She feels Regina’s breath catch and she smiles against soft soft skin. One hand wraps around Regina’s middle and pulls her close and the other works at hiking up the front of Regina’s skirt. Emma’s fingertips rake up Regina’s thighs until she meets skin at the tops of Regina’s stockings and she lingers there.

 

“Emma.”

 

She wants and wants and when she slips her hand up further, to where her fingertips meet lace and warmth and Regina, Regina moans. And it’s the most beautiful sound Emma has ever heard. So she presses up through the lace and rubs until Regina is whimpering and moaning and close.

 

“Wanna make you come,” Emma mumbles against Regina’s shoulder as she pushes damp lace aside. It’s three barely there strokes until Regina is gasping, gripping Emma’s wrist tightly with her free hand.

 

“ _Emma!_ ”

 

But then she’s gone and Emma is stumbling forward, catching herself on the counter. “The fuck?”

 

Regina has that wild look in her eyes and she’s backed up against the opposite counter. They stare at each other for god knows how long, breathing heavy and angry, and the air is thick and she wants to fucking break something. So she does. The angry shattering of porcelain nearly makes Regina jump out of her skin, and her hands clench into fists at her sides. And she stares her wife down because this is it, this is what they’ve become.


	5. assignments and block parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emma and regina both kill some people and regina holds a baby. excellent. yes. good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG.
> 
> I'M REALLY SORRY.
> 
> as always, this is for Dee. you're the best.

She’s on the phone in her office, standing idly by her desk, twirling a pencil between her fingers. She smiles even, laughs, and Emma feels sick. She used to smile at Emma like that, open and bright. She used to smile at Emma like there was only her, only the lightness in her heart and the breeze in her hair, just the two of them. Emma sometimes forgets how beautiful Regina is when she smiles.

 

Emma’s phone buzzes in her pocket, a fucking group text with August and Neal.

 

_The Lost Boys. Back room. Over on Canal._

_Me?_

_No, you fucking idiot. Swan._

_Fucking idiot? Use the fucking code names, you fuckin dipshit._

 

Christ.

 

She drags herself upstairs to change and she spares a quick glance toward Regina’s office on the way. She’s probably upstairs, turning down the bed, closing the curtains, washing away any of Emma left on her body. God damn it.

 

The heel of her hand still hurts from Neal’s last assignment and she grimaces. She yanks open the top drawer next to the sink to find her watch and the whole thing rattles.

 

“Emma!”

 

Emma turns, realizes Regina’s just a few feet away.

 

“Honey, you scared me.”

 

“Sorry, ‘Gina. I just--” Emma stops to look Regina up and down. Something is softer in her face, and she’s changed clothes. She’s wearing a black coat, the one with the belt, and wait, are those boots? Who are those for? Shit. Emma feels sick all over again. “You going out?”

 

“Yes,” she sighs and the softness is gone. “Some idiot crashed a server downtown and ended the world as we know it, so, yes, I’m going out.”

 

“We promised Gold,” Emma reminds her, because no fucking way is she going over there alone later. To a party. Full of their Stepford neighbors. And Elias Gold.

 

“I know,” Regina nods as she ties her favorite Hermès scarf around her neck. “I won’t be long at all.”

 

Emma shrugs and slams the drawer shut again.

 

\--

 

Emma takes the Sedan into the city, parks it in a ramp and pays a god damn fortune for a shitty parking space as close to the stairs as she can get it. She surveys the ramp for security cameras and guard posts and makes a quick mental note to tell August to reimburse her. Not that he will. Why are they so cheap.

 

The bar is divey and dingy, it reeks like grease and burnt food and the smell of the Chinese takeout place next door wafts in every time the door opens. Emma tugs her hair back into a ponytail and pulls her beanie down further. She’s not going to have time to wash her hair, and there’s that party, and those people, and Regina. She grabs a stool at the bar and orders whatever they just tapped. It’s hoppy and strong so she sips slowly and waits. She waits and watches, keeps an eye on her exits, on the placement of the big guy near the door, on the two guys in the corner playing darts.

 

She tosses a ten on the bar top after a while, squeezes past the dart players and down the back hall. There’s just one lone man in the kitchen, wiping down the stainless steel with a dirty rag. Emma nods at him in passing and heads toward the bathrooms. She keeps walking though, down the steep dark stairwell at the end of the hall. The fluorescent lights flicker and she stifles a groan, that’s gonna be a wicked migraine later. She can hear the tinny sounds of a small TV from behind one of the closed doors, some semi-reputable news station, and she pulls her flask from her jacket pocket before she swings open the door.

 

There are three of them, sweaty, drunk, and probably underage, around a rickety card table. They look up immediately and the one in the middle, skinny as a beanpole, reaches for a SIG laying out on the table, “What the fuck? Who the shit are you?”

 

Emma sways on her feet, takes a swig from her flask, slurs her words just right. “Sorry, looking for the can. I thought it -- chrissakes, I -- _shit,_ you guys playin’ poker?”

 

“Private game. Piss off,” the one on the right, Emma’s right, grunts. He looks short, stocky, and he’s got an impressive mustache for a kid who looks like he’s barely twenty.

 

Emma’s grip on her flask loosens and she smiles just enough, “Can I sit in? _Shit_ , I love —”

 

“What part of _piss off_ do you not understand?” beanpole lays his cards down on the table and leans forward in his seat. The other two follow suit and beanpole’s got the SIG pointed right at Emma.

 

“Guys,” Emma pauses, ignores the press of her own gun at the small of her back. “ _Woah_ , you could be a little friendlier and shit.” She stumbles forward, her arms heavy at her sides. “I got the cash.” She trips, both hands landing flat on the table. Beanpole won’t shoot her, he’s staring down her top. One hand moves to her coat pocket for her wallet, she tosses it down onto the table and steps back, arms up in surrender. “See what I’m sayin’?”

 

“Easy, lady,” mustache slaps his cards down onto the table.

 

Beanpole picks up the wallet, fucking _Prada_ , fucking _Regina_. “Yeah?” He turns it over in his hands a few times, runs his grubby thumbs over the textured leather. “This legit?”

 

Emma shrugs, “See what I’m sayin’? Anyone interested?”

 

All three are quiet, beanpole’s jaw hardens.

 

“Oh. ‘Cause I’ll clean you out,” Emma purses her lips as she nods. “Yeah, okay. I get it,” she reaches for her wallet, palm up. Beanpole considers her for another few seconds, wallet still clutched in one hand. “Listen, man. I just,” she leans forward onto the table again. How fucking belligerent does she have to get. How fucking sloppy. “I just…” She blinks her eyes closed and sighs as her head falls forward. Milk it, Swan. She catches sight of mustache’s Nike Dunks, excellent. “Shit, those are really cool Dunks, man.”

 

“Jesus,” the kid on the left has been quiet this whole time. He’s shaking his head. “How drunk _are_ you?”

 

Emma shrugs, manages a lopsided grin as she tries to right herself next to the only empty chair. “Oh, you know.”

 

“Pan ain’t gonna like this,” mustache reaches out to sweep all the cards toward himself. “Pan ain’t gonna like it at all.”

 

“There’s an empty chair right here,” Emma grips the backrest with one hand. “I could sit here. Just let me sit in one round.” She moves to sit and mustache grabs her wrist with one hand. “Hey, what the—”

 

“That’s Pan’s chair,” beanpole glares, wipes the sweat from his brow.

 

_Shit_ , it’s hot down here.

 

“Where’s Pan? I don’t see Pan?” she looks around, shrugs out of her coat.

 

“Pan’s not back yet,” mustache shuffles the deck and doesn’t meet Emma’s eyes.

 

“Great, then I’ll sit here,” Emma lets a little bit of edge creep back into her voice and starts to hang her coat on the back of the chair. “Unless,” she pauses halfway. “I’m too hot for you.”

 

—

 

“We’ve got a plane in an hour.”

 

“Alright,” Regina nods, follows closely through the penthouse. The W, disgusting. Of all the god damn hotels in Manhattan. She counts the men on her way through, there’s the one leading her. He would be easy enough to take care of, there are two watching fucking Wheel of Fortune on the flatscreen, there’s one in the kitchenette, and two milling around. That’s six. She’s had worse.

 

“Here we are,” he stops, opens a set of double doors to the master suite. “An hour.”

 

“I shouldn’t need more than thirty minutes,” Regina smirks, flips her hair over one shoulder as she passes.

 

The door closes with a soft click behind her and she locks it promptly after.

 

“Well, _well._ ”

 

She hears him before she sees him. The light in the en suite bathroom is on, and he emerges not a moment later. He leers, leans up against the doorframe, and Regina takes a moment to observe. He’s got one hand over his crotch, adjusting himself before he speaks again. “They said they’d send their best, but _god damn_.”

 

“Strip and on your knees,” Regina doesn’t bother to look up anymore as she undoes the belt of her coat. She doesn’t need to see him, not at all. She can feel his eyes on her as she lays the expensive cashmere over the back of a chair. The leather bustier underneath was made for her. It accentuates the dip of her waist, pushes her tits up to her chin. Emma would — no. “I do believe I gave an order, did I not?”

 

He’s kicking off his pants then, and he drops to his knees in the center of the room as he unbuttons his dress shirt. He’s grinning, panting, and Regina’s lip curls in disgust.

 

“Have you been a bad boy?” Regina steps behind him, raises one stiletto clad foot to his back.

 

“Yes,” he’s practically shivering in anticipation and Regina takes a peek over his shoulder and down. He’s pathetically hard already, and god, _disgusting_.

 

“You know what happens to bad boys?” she leans forward, digs the heel of her boot into his back. “They get _punished_.”

 

“Ooh, _yeah_. Punish me,” his eyes close, chin tilting upward and he shivers.

 

“Eyes on the floor.” Regina kicks him forward just far enough and places her foot back on the ground. “You’ve taken several liberties already, it’s as if you’re testing me.” She walks around him slowly, stands before him with her hands on her hips. “I’ll ask you again. Have you been bad?”

 

“So bad,” it comes out in a whoosh of breath and Regina can smell stale cigarettes and scotch.

 

She leans in, wants him to see her face before she ends him. Wants him to know exactly what she’s capable of. “Look at me.”

 

His eyes move from her chest to her face and he blinks.

 

“You deserve to be punished, don’t you?” She likes to revel every now and then. Likes to feel a little bit more powerful than the pitiful men on their knees for her. It’s so rare she even gets the opportunity anymore.

 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

 

“Because you’ve been taking hearts, haven’t you? Big beating hearts and you’ve been doing _big bad things_ ,” her voice drops and there’s a moment of realization before her hand is surging forward, plunging into his chest. Regina’s eyes flash violet as her fingers wrap around pulsing muscle and he gasps.

 

“ _No,_ ” he gasps, louder this time. “ _Help! No!”_

 

“Oh, yes,” she pulls her hand free, his heart beating and glowing in her palm. “Now, don’t scream, Doctor.” She squeezes hard, and harder still, until there’s no resistance, until his heart is dust in her palm. Until he falls forward and hits the hardwood with a thud.

 

Regina knows it’s only a matter of time, someone’s heard, she has to get out. Has to get to that stupid party at Elias Gold’s house.

 

“Doctor Whale?” There’s a voice outside, knocking, and Regina wipes her hands on the bedspread and reaches for her coat. She tries to picture the ramp around the corner where she parked her car as she ties the belt.

 

“Doctor Whale? You okay?”

 

“He’s down!”

 

Regina closes her eyes, flexes her fingers once, twice. She feels the air around her change, feels the cold dank air of the parking ramp and she’s safe. Almost. She has an hour exactly. Great.

 

—

 

“Solid silver, _shit_ ,” beanpole’s holding Emma’s flask, inspecting it, scrutinizing really.

 

“Let me see,” mustache reaches out a hand, grabs the flask when beanpole takes too much time passing it over. “ _To dodging bullets. Love, Regina.”_

 

“Your old lady?” kid on the left pipes up, takes a swig of Jack straight from the bottle.

 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Emma shrugs, points to the flask. “C’mon, put it in the pot. Let’s play some fuckin’ poker.”

 

Mustache drops the now empty flask onto the table and the game begins again. They play for an hour, Emma drops cash, diamond earrings, and her necklaces in the pot, wins ‘em all back too, before the door slams open.

 

“What the hell is this?” There’s another boy, Emma knows he’s no more than twenty-four himself.

 

“Sorry, Pan,” kid on the left mumbles, shoves his cards away on the table.

 

“Alright,” mustache is shoving at Emma, trying to get her to stand.

 

“You’re done, lady. Thanks for the memories,” beanpole’s standing up then too and Emma doesn’t have much time to plan. Which is fine, really, not really her style anyhow.

 

Emma looks up with a shit-eating grin and bleary eyes, “Oh, you’re Pan? No kidding.”

 

Pan looks her up and down as she gets to her feet, clumsy and fumbling, “What is it, lady? You looking for a job or something?”

 

Emma’s grin turns wolfish, and her eyes harden. She reaches behind herself until she can feel the press of the Glock against her fingertips, until she can wrap her fingers around the grip, feel it steady against her palm, “You _are_ the job.”

 

And then everything is in motion. She elbows mustache in the nose first, just to get him out of the way, before she’s magicking the door shut in a flash of blue, and pulling back the slide on her Glock. Beanpole is fast, but not fast enough, and she’s already got two shots fired at Pan before he gets to her. He tries to grab her in a chokehold, his SIG already forgotten on the table, _amateur_ , but Emma’s quicker, and stronger. She’s manages to twist out of his grasp, muzzle of her gun pressed right up against his ribs.

 

“Leader of the pack, huh?” she quirks an eyebrow and doesn’t hesitate as she pulls the trigger. He’s close, too close, and she really should have planned better because there’s blood, more blood _on her_ than she anticipated, and there’s that fucking party. She pushes him away and turns to kid on the left and mustache. Mustache has been wailing about his broken nose and kid on the left has decided to cower in the corner like a fucking child. Emma doesn’t have time, can’t have time, so she finishes the two of them off, kid on the left first, mustache last.

 

She grabs her flask, her jewelry, but leaves the cash. And she runs. She runs up the stairs, skipping a step each time, and she’s tugging her hat on, down over her hair, and she slips out through the kitchen. She hurries down the alley, stays in the shadows, until she’s behind the wheel of her fucking sedan.

 

The BMW however, is a much sexier getaway car than the bug.

 

—

 

“Everything okay at work?” Emma’s got a small bouquet of daisies in one hand, a bottle of merlot in the other. Regina has one hand tentatively curled inside Emma’s elbow and they pause on Elias Gold’s stoop.

 

“Fine,” Regina nods, turns to look at Emma. “And you? How was the game?” This is how they talk now. Innocuous small talk that leads nowhere.

 

“The game was good,” Emma shrugs, turns to face Regina as well.

 

Regina’s hand moves from her pocket to straighten the collar of Emma’s shirt, smooth the shoulders of her jacket, “Good.”

 

“Nets in overtime,” Emma grins, rings the bell, and Regina can feel her breath, hot against her face. Smell it too.

 

“Have you been drinking?” her tone is clipped now, her eyes narrowing in displeasure.

 

“That’s right, miss.” Emma’s all swagger again, all careless idiocy, chest fucking forward and Regina sees red. But god damn, it hits Regina in the gut. It coils and curls and she can feel it between her thighs, she squirms for a moment as the door opens.

 

Emma holds her gaze for a second too long, burning and testing and pushing. Regina stares back, unwavering and angry, and she forgets herself, forgets that the door has been opened, that they aren’t alone.

 

“Welcome neighbors!” Belle waves and Elias merely nods.

 

“Hi Belle,” Emma’s stepping forward, offering the flowers and the wine. “Hey Elias.”

 

“Oh, thank you! The flowers are lovely,” Belle smiles, takes both of them from Emma’s outstretched arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you both.”

 

“Welcome,” Elias reaches out to shake Emma’s hand.

 

Regina’s working the belt of her coat, surveying the guests huddled near the sofas.

 

“Oh, Regina, that’s such a lovely dress,” Belle reaches out to take Regina’s coat.

 

“Oh, thank you,” Regina smiles, demure and soft. The dress is pale pink silk. Something she would have worn when she and Emma were first married. There’s a matching cardigan, she’s adjusted well to live in suburbia. “Yours as well.”

 

“Come on, let’s go see the girls,” Belle is reaching for Regina’s wrist, tugging her toward the living room. “Don’t stray too far!” she gives a nod to Elias and Emma.

 

“Right,” Emma nods in return.

 

Regina is uncomfortable, so uncomfortable, around all these chatty women. But she smiles, sits down amongst them and takes the wine Belle offers. She crosses her legs, reaches for the glass, and something in Belle’s face changes. She follows the line of the other woman’s eyes, down to her thighs now that the pink silk has ridden up to the middle of them.

 

_Shit._

 

Fishnets and shiny leather stiletto-heeled boots. She’d barely had time to change, had run in and out of the house just in time to meet Emma at the end of the front walkway. She tugs at the hem of her skirt, smiles shyly as if there’s been some mistake, and takes a large sip of wine.

 

“So,” Ashley Boyd is to her right, hand resting on her growing belly. “Sean got the promotion.”

 

“That is so great!” Marian Locksley is just to her left, holding her four month old baby.

 

Regina is going to need more wine.

 

She takes a slow look around the room, sees Emma leaning up against the bar top, scotch in hand. She’s nodding, smiling, talking about something with Robin Locksley. Regina sighs.

 

“We can finally start that kitchen remodel, and we can get going on the nursery too,” she beams, strokes her stomach for good measure. “We’re so thrilled.”

 

“Congratulations,” Marian smiles. “Oh! Shoot! Not again.”

 

Regina looks to her left, the baby has chosen this particular moment (maybe he, too, is thrilled about the kitchen remodel) to spit up on Marian’s lilac cashmere cardigan.

 

“I should wear a raincoat,” she rolls her eyes with a smile. “You know what?” she turns to Regina. “Could you hold him a second?”

 

“What?” Regina looks up, wineglass halfway to her lips. “No, I’d really rather not.”

 

“Regina, it’ll just be a minute, please.”

 

Regina is shaking her head, she’s never been good with children, maybe at one point thought she’d like Emma’s, but they’d be awful parents. They’re just not suited to it. “No, Marian. I can’t.”

 

“It’s all over the — Here.”

 

And then there’s a baby, being pushed forward, and she’s setting down her wineglass and holding out her arms for the infant. He’s heavier than she expected and she tightens her hands beneath his armpits.

 

“Thank you,” Marian sounds exasperated. “Belle, do you have any seltzer?”

 

“Of course,” Belle is up and leading Marian toward the kitchen.

 

It’s just Regina and little Ashley Boyd then. And she holds the baby just far enough away. She can look at him, but he doesn’t have to get too close. He’s got big brown eyes and a curly mop of dark brown hair. He looks as if he could be hers, which is ridiculous and absurd and she pushes the thought out of her mind as soon as it appears there. But when he smiles at her and two little dimples appear on either side of his teeny tiny mouth, Regina feels her breath catch in her throat.

 

“Oh, he likes you!” Ashley is positively giddy beside her.

 

She makes the mistake of looking up then, as she brings the baby closer to her chest. She looks up and she sees Emma, and Emma is looking at her. Emma’s looking at her with those big stupid green eyes, and she’s grinning that crooked half grin that always wants to be something more. There’s something longing in her eyes, and then there’s something else. Something bright and something Regina hasn’t seen in a very long time. And suddenly she can’t breathe at all.

 

—

 

She’s walking into the bathroom, lifting her toothbrush from its place on the counter, when she hears Emma’s voice.

 

“I liked your dress tonight.”

 

And there’s something sad and longing in her voice and Regina wishes she could just push it all away. Forget about the baby and the look in Emma’s eyes. Forget about Bogotá and wildflowers and long blonde curls. Forget about Westchester County and this fucking house and the living room she can’t seem to get right.

 

“It was nice.”

 

Regina meets her eyes in the mirror for a moment, “Thank you.”

 

—

 

Emma’s on the phone when she slips into bed, her own phone buzzing on the nightstand. There are three messages from Kathryn and a voicemail from Mal. She reads each carefully, presses the phone to her ear, rolls her eyes at the absolute ennui Mal can never hide in her voice.

 

“Who was that?” Emma’s hung up by the time she places her phone back on the nightstand.

 

“Oh,” she waves a hand dismissively, slides down until her head is resting on her pillow. “My mother. She thinks she’s coming down with something, is in one of her usual crises.”

 

“Maybe you should go see her for a couple days, it’s been a while,” Emma yawns, reaches for the light.

 

“Maybe,” Regina sighs, reaches for the light on her side as well. “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” Emma nods and Regina can hear the click of the light.

 

She looks out the window, at the sliver of moon, “Who was that?”

 

“Hmm?” Emma’s half asleep already.

 

“On the phone?” Regina rolls onto her back, turns to look at Emma.

 

“Oh,” Emma sighs, yawns. “The Atlanta office, might have to head down there for a few days.”

 

“Oh,” Regina stretches her arms above her head, wiggles into a more comfortable position. “Goodnight, Emma.”

 

Emma rolls onto her side, slings an arm over Regina’s middle, and it’s the closest she’s been, the most intimate, in… a while. Regina wants to forget the baby and the look and the longing, wants to forget it more than anything. “Night, ‘Gina. Love you.”

 

Regina goes rigid under Emma’s arm, shivers when she feels Emma’s nose nudging behind her ear. Emma’s breathing is slowing and she presses a gentle kiss just beneath Regina’s ear before she falls asleep. Emma’s a heavy sleeper, always has been, and Regina sighs. “You too.”

 


End file.
